Page 27 of Burly Biker of Misty Mountain

Then the cancer poisoned her bones, and she lost weight so rapidly that she became a shadow of her former self. Andyet somehow, she still managed to remain gentle, touching my cheek with a tender smile just for me.

I would never forget standing at her hospital bedside, with a black eye and a split lip, hanging my head in shame when the school put me in detention for two weeks.

“You’ve been fighting again, my sweet boy,” she had whispered with so much pain and disappointment in her voice.

I had curled my fingers into fists at my sides, grinding my teeth, glaring at the floor.

“They hit her.”

Silence had filled my mother’s hospital room, punctuated by her shallow, raspy breathing, and the beep of the machines she’d been hooked up to. I’d lifted my head and met my mother’s gaze.

“The new girl at school," I added. "A group of boys were bullying her. They pushed her to the ground and laughed at her. She was crying. One of them hit her and told her to stop being a baby. So I…I told them to leave her alone. But they wouldn’t. And then we got into a fight.”

My mother had sighed and stroked my hair, kissing my forehead.

“My fearless little warrior.”

After my mother died when I was fourteen, I was shipped off to my deadbeat uncle, the spitting image of my no-good father who had abandoned me and my mother in the first place. He was just as quick to raise his hand to me as dear old Dad used to be, so I didn’t last three days before I packed my shit and never looked back.

I reached behind me, caressing Katie’s calf and up to her thigh. When I first met her, I’d been hellbent on corruption, but that wasn’t really true. She was achingly sweet and gentle and pure.

I’d seen the world snuff out women like that, my mother being one of them.

And the level of corruption I had in mind probably had more to do with an all-consuming drive to protect, to guard, toclaim.To imprint myself on her skin and let her know that she was safe with me.

When we pulled up to the clubhouse and parked, I turned to Katie, helping her unbuckle her helmet and remove it.

“If you’re uncomfortable at any time,” I said. “We can leave. Just say the word.”

“I’ll be fine. If anyone comes near me, you’ll bare your teeth and scare them off.”

Damn straight,I thought.

The clubhouse was a ratty old brick building that used to be a glass bottle factory back in the day. The second floor had been converted into a living space, complete with six rooms for anyone who needed a warm bed for the night.

Katie slipped her arm into the crook of my elbow as we entered the clubhouse. The main floor plans had been left intact, creating a wide open area for a pool table, jukebox, a bar, and half a dozen tables. Low, dim lighting barely illuminated the club pictures that lined the walls and the cuts from previous members that had passed away or retired.

“Guests are in the house tonight, boys,” Hillbilly called. “I’d appreciate it if one of you knuckleheads would rope Maverick into a game of poker and wipe the floor with his ass. The rat bastard cheated me out of three grand last time he was in town, and I’m still sore about it.”

“I didn’t cheat,” I protested. “You’re shit at poker. Texas hold 'em is a different matter. That’s why I weasel my way out the door when you start dealing.”

Hillbilly huffed a dry laugh.

“I knew it, you little chicken shit. Have a seat, make yourselves at home.”

“I could give Katie a tour,” Pretty Boy offered. He propped his elbows on the bar and leaned back with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Show her around. Give her a taste of club life.”

I slid my palm down to rest on Katie’s lower back, guiding her into a nearby booth.

“Over my dead body.”

Pretty Boy chuckled. When I settled into the booth next to Katie, she curled her hand around my bicep, just like she did in the Rusty Elk when we first met. A subtly possessive gesture of her own to serve as a reminder that she wasn’t interested in anyone else except me.

She gave a small smile, searching my face with her big blue stare that seemed to cut right to my heart every damn time.

“You sound more like enemies than friends,” she said.

“It’s just biker talk, dove.”

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